But I’m looking for two things when I first spy the products fanned on a granite-top bathroom counter. One, a little tray underneath which says, “this hotel is concerned about you, so much so we will present your body wash on a shiny oval.” Swank. And two, the fancily folded hand towels tucked behind the shampoos and lotions.
A towel-less, tray-less clutch of toiletries oozes sadness to me. It’s as if the hotel has given up. No matter how much Butter in Winter cream I slather on, I still feel blue. Creamy, but blue. Call it toiletry-based tristesse.
For a MOTEL perspective on toiletries, visit Motel Me More.
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